


Saints Hotel

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Sleep fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23789242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: With everything that's gone wrong in their lifetime, John and Arthur still manage to slip away, taking up each other's time in a seedy hotel in the muddy town of Valentine.
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Saints Hotel

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Chapter 2 of the RDR2 timeline

Arthur sleeps. John has his back to him, although the space between them is scarce, even more so with Arthur’s arm slung around his waist. They’ve slept like this before far too many times for either of them to count, in various places from inside a tent out in the middle of the wilderness to a firm, cozy mattress in the finest lodging Blackwater had to offer. This time, they’re inhabiting a room upstairs in the Saints Hotel in Valentine. 

The moon is still high in the sky, the light from it pooling in through the windows of the room. Everything’s quiet, save for the few muffled noises coming from the other hotel patrons still left awake. It’s one of the more peaceful sleeps Arthur ever remembers having, even tangled up in the scratchy linen sheets and John’s quiet dream-induced mumbles filling the room ever so often. 

For as long as Arthur has known John, he’s known that John talks in his sleep. When he was younger, John used to have nightmares that would emit the worst of his sleep ramblings. Arthur, with his tent usually set up right next to John’s, got to hear to worst of it and would take on the duty of waking John from his vivid dreams. Now, the nightmares aren’t as present anymore, whether it be to John’s loss of imagination or his increase in age, but it’s something Arthur’s grateful for. 

It’s not enough to disturb Arthur from his sleep anymore, but maybe the muffled words John mutters into his pillow are enough to get tangled in with Arthur’s own dreams. Arthur dreams of John often. Glimpses of his face, him talking to Arthur or to someone else. Sometimes, his loud gravelly voice will come out, just as Arthur remembers it, or John will open his mouth and all that will come out is the nonsense mumbles of his peaceful sleep. 

John kicks in his sleep, too. An abrupt blow to Arthur’s leg from the backwards jerk of John’s heel. Arthur is torn from his dream and into consciousness, awaking with a mild jolt only to find the other man still soundly asleep beside him, completely unaware of his disturbance. Arthur has more or less grown used to the kicks by now, but ever so often they are hard enough to jar Arthur awake and leave behind a small bruise on Arthur’s leg or shin. 

Arthur envies Abigail for having John like this more often, but in the end Arthur has to respect the outturn of events. If John were to belong to anybody in a sense, he would be Abigail’s, as he would belong to the dedication he made for his family. Arthur has made himself and John swear to never meet like this again, as the whole act entirely is a betrayal, and yet it seems they keep finding themselves like this again and again. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he’d bet he and John would sell their souls to have one last night in some seedy motel room, just as tonight. 

The act of itself is entirely an euphoria. The shared glances across camp that he and John share as more so of an invitation rather than a coincidental glimpse. The feeling of truly being alone behind the shut door of the hotel room, where Arthur can smash his lips against John’s with the open want and need he’s felt since their last encounter such as this. The wandering hands groping at any exposed skin and clawing to expose more, discarded clothes falling to the wooden floor below them as if without any further importance. The moans and sighs that come from John, Arthur looming above him and John’s eyes set to watching his face, a small almost delirious smile painting his features. In the end, moments such as these might seem worth such a price.

For now, Arthur can let his guilt get the best of him in the morning. Arthur readjusts his grip on John’s waist and settles back down against his pillow, pulling the other man closer. Without the barrier of clothes, the hotel sheets feel even more scratchy, but the warmth emitting from John’s body is enough to help Arthur forget and settle back into sleep.


End file.
